


Only a Dream

by KosukeRen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, PTSD John, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:46:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KosukeRen/pseuds/KosukeRen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock notices John's nightmares have started up again, but fails to see the bigger picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only a Dream

_What now?_

Austere eyes wriggled themselves from the grip of the computer screen, and the small lamp beside the bed revealed the doctor, shifting anxiously. _I thought the PTSD would have subsided more than this. Damned therapist doesn’t know what she’s doing._

A soft murmuring evolved into exasperated pleas before the silent spectator thought to react. He removed the computer from his lap and placed it on the bedside table. Rolling his weight onto one elbow, he placed his arm on the army doctor’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shove.

“John.” The unwavering voice did nothing to attract the man’s attention. Another shove, a bit more aggressive. “Wake up, John. You’re dreaming.”  The brunette shifted his weight back to a sitting position and used his other hand to slap the distressed face with increasing intensity.

The attempt only seemed to worsen the problem. The detective rolled his eyes before grabbing the collar of the white shirt and giving him a violent shake. As the blond hair was lifted from the pillow, blue eyes shot open in a flurry of panic. The pale arm was grasped by the confused soldier.

“John! It’s me, Sherlock, you were having a dream!” The grip John had on the frail arm receded as the realization dawned on him. A sigh of relief came shortly after. “You’re alright… It was just a bad dream…” John let go and used his hands to prop himself to a sitting position. He decided to break the silence with a clearing of his throat.

“Right… a bad dream…” He was unable to acknowledge the scouring blue eyes as he spoke and looked instead at the bedspread. The lanky arm reached out again, this time in an attempt to comfort, and rested on an unsteady shoulder.

“This isn’t the war, John.” Sherlock was turned around, facing him now. His neck craned down, and his eyes tried to intercept the vacant stare. “You’ve no reason to fear.”

“I know, I know.” John shot back defensively and brushed the arm on his shoulder away. He tried to squirm away from the magnifying gaze of his detective’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the man what the dream had actually been about.

“…Are you alright?” He knew something was out of place. John knew he knew. But he could never tell him.

He could never tell Sherlock he had been tortured with those horrid scenes again and again. He recalled the familiar skin morphing from pale to blue, losing its warmth to John’s touch. The pulse was nowhere to be found as the pool of blood grew to encompass them both. He vainly suppressed a shudder as the darkness pulled him deeper, until he was drowning in the cold blood of his best friend, the man he loved.

“Yeah, ‘course I’m fine…” A feigned smile did nothing to assure the detective. “This happens. You know that.” After a brief pause John reached for a hand, trying desperately to recover the warmth to his friend’s dying image. He looked at the slight blush in the pale features and forcibly blinked the haunting corpse out of his mind. He cherished the faint breath on his neck and the gentle tremble more than he ever had before. Even the painful eyes that prodded him for an explanation were beautifully full of life. _I can’t ever lose you again…_

“Really, I’m fine... Let’s just get some sleep.” John used his free hand to turn off the bedside lamp and then tucked himself back into the warmth of the comforter. Even in the darkness, the pressing eyes cast palpable concern. Sherlock moved closer to his soldier and gingerly tucked an arm under him, to which the blond complied. John still held the long fingers in his own as he buried his head into the osseous shoulder. He spoke hesitantly.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“…For?”  

"For not being dead.”


End file.
